


The Chains of Hatchright

by BlueMinuet



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternian Empire enslaving humanity, Forced Labor, HSWC 2013, M/M, Slavery, mentions of physical abuse, troll culture is basically terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMinuet/pseuds/BlueMinuet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Director Zahhak oversees the building of the Empire’s ships, but runs into trouble when a new laborer is transferred to his shipyard. </p>
<p>(Homestuck Shipping World Cup Round One entry for Team Broncos.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Chains of Hatchright

**Author's Note:**

> I finally remembered to post this on AO3. Now that voting is over, I can finally claim ownership of this piece. Many thanks to the rest of the team, especially [SeiryuNoHoushi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SeiryuNoHoushi/pseuds/SeiryuNoHoushi) who helped with editing and whatnot.

_“You cannot fight the role the Mother has made for you.”_

 _–Old Alternian Proverb_

 _“human slaves r the fuckin best. like, humans wont go on + on whinin bout their feelins + quads + shit like troll servants. + humans only have 1 quad, so im p sure that means they only have like ¼ of the emotions anyway.”

—From the Twiterror feed of a Troll Oscar winning actress

_

* * *

You flip idly through the typical forms sitting on your desk. Your assistant, a red blood whom you saved from culling (and honestly you think he could act more grateful about it), stands in front of your desk, his face stuck in its permanent scowl.

The paperwork is all fairly standard stuff. Except for...

"What's this transfer requisition?"

Your assistant's frown deepens. "A human at another labor yard. The Director there is ready to cull him if no other yard takes him. And he's been transferred so much, no one wants a damn thing to do with him."

You frown. "What has he done?"

"The usual," he replies. "Talking back to overseers, bucking orders, assembling workers after lights out. Nothing really cull worthy, but you know how it goes."

You do. Culling undesirable workers is first and foremost among the responsibilities of a Director, and many take pleasure in performing it with only the slightest provocation. There must be some reason this worker is still alive. And looking at his skill set and work record, you easily see why; he is very competent, it seems.

"Why would you think I would want to take him in?"

"I'm sorry; I thought you liked trouble cases," he says. He adds "sir" almost as an afterthought.

You frown, but he's not wrong.

* * *

_“From the moment we crawled out of the brooding caverns, fresh from the trials of youth and anointed with the blood of our first vanquished foes, we Trolls have known what it takes to be strong. But biology robbed that from the genome of humans, and it has damned their species to being weak and dependent on others for all their short lives. Truly, they should thank the Empire for volunteering to rear them and raise them, as a caring Lusus would an ungrateful wriggler.”_

 _—Excerpt from “Basic Biology for Dumb Wrigglers”_

* * *

The securiterrorists bring the human in, throwing him to the ground before you. One of them pauses to kick the shackled human in the side before laughing and turning to leave. You pull that one aside before he gets too far. 

“Was that entirely necessary?” you ask. 

The securiterrorist points to an olive bruise on his face. “He did this to me on the way here, even all tied up like he is. If it were up to me, I’d cull this one right now.”

“I would appreciate you not damaging my workers,” you say, glaring down at him. 

“Have it your way,” he says, pulling away from you. “But you’ll see. This thin-skin’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

You let him go, but you don’t let your gaze off of him until he’s out the door. You turn back to the shackled worker and frown. 

“I am Director Zahhak. I run this shipyard. You have been transferred here because—”

“Because I’m a lowlife piece of trash that’s just waiting to be culled by a smug asshole like you.”

Charming.

"Number please?"

"Strider," he croaks.

You roll your eyes. Most humans are capable of understanding a simple request for their number.

"I said number," you repeat, annunciating for his benefit.

"And I said my NAME is Dirk Strider."

You feel a growl rumbling in your throat. "I don't care. Your number, please."

He looks up at you glaring with bright orange eyes. "Look, just because I’m a human doesn’t mean I don’t know how this works. I’ve pissed off lots of people, and every new director seems to think they’re the one that has big enough shame-globes to break me and prove that they’re the baddest bitch in the Empire. And maybe you think you’re the one that is finally going to tame me, like some wild hoofbeast that needs domesticating. But it ain’t gonna happen. So, if you’re trying to prove a point by keeping me alive, do me a favor and don’t. Kill me, and let’s get this shit over with, yeah?”

You kneel to meet him at eye level. “I assure you that I would never use a worker’s life simply to prove a point. And I promise that I will not cull you until you honestly deserve it. But I cannot keep you alive unless you can follow an order as simple as reciting to me your worker number."

The human blinks at you, surprised. "12032409," he whispers.

You nod. "Thank you."

* * *

_“The human brain is simply not advanced enough for the species to survive on its own. It is only by some strange accident of the laws of evolution turning a blind eye to them that they lived long enough to be conquered. Glory be to the Condesce for her unfathomable wisdom to see that even such unpupated simpletons could contribute to the greater glory of the Empire.”_

 _—Excerpt from “A Brief History on the Condesce’s Swag”_

* * *

It's been a few months since Strider transferred, and there have been no major incidents. You’re currently sitting atop a bulkhead, running a length of conduit through what will soon be the engine room of the ship. This is not part of the expected duties of the director of a ship yard, but you find the work relaxing. 

A clatter alerts you to the fact that you are no longer alone in this section. You look down, and see Strider, a long length of cable resting coiled around one shoulder and a large toolbox in one hand. He’s more or less gapping up at you.

“What are you doing down here?” 

“I am running conduit from the Helmsman’s pod to the main engines,” you say.

He nods. “I thought Ryan was going to do that.”

“Ryan is a fool. He has bungled this task repeatedly.”

“Did you cull him?”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “No, I reassigned him to the upper decks, and opted to rerun the conduit myself.” 

Strider shakes his head, letting out the slightest hint of a chuckle. He climbs up to your level, and you have to admit that you are slightly impressed with how easily he manages to climb, even carrying the toolbox and the cable. 

“Okay, seriously, this is the strangest labor camp I’ve ever been in,” he says. 

“How so?”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, first of all, you’re doing your slaves’ work for them when they fuck up, and then you don’t cull them; you just tell them to go fuck something else up. In fact, I’ve been here three months, and I haven’t seen anyone get culled at all. And even when you punish people you just… give them a stern talking to.” 

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“Just fucking weird. I mean hell, I hardly have any skin left on my back from taking beatings just for talking when I wasn’t supposed to. I mean, for fuck’s sake, anywhere else I’d be beaten just for this conversation.” 

You frown. It’s true. You’re not a typical director. “I’m a pacifist.” 

His face goes blank, as if he doesn’t recognize the word. “I didn’t think trolls came in that flavor.” 

You roll your eyes, and it would be quite undignified if they weren’t hidden behind your shades. You decide not to respond to that, and he does the same, rummaging through his toolbox. You keep moving, running the conduit, and stopping periodically to tighten a bracket around it to keep it in place. 

It takes a few minutes before he interrupts the silence. 

“It’s just… I’ve never met a highblood that could be called a pacifist. No offence; I guess that’s just the stereotype. But I have met some pretty ruthless lowbloods, come to think of it, so it was only a matter of time before I met a highblood that wasn’t a jerkass.”

You try to focus on tightening the bracket, but you feel drawn to respond. You turn to face him.

“When I was very young, I had… a friend. She lived very far away from me, and I only knew her through online correspondence. I was very excited to one day meet her in person. 

“When the day finally came, she ran up to me and hugged me tightly. And I excitedly returned the gesture, but… I was very strong, and I had never touched another of my kind before. And I didn’t know how… frail a body could be. I accidently snapped her spine.” 

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath. 

“I… She recovered, with augmentations, but… I never forgot the feeling of hurting her. Never forgot how absolutely horrible it felt to be responsible for hurting an innocent person. I swore never to do it again.” 

You look at him, and he’s got the strangest expression on his face. You can’t quite read it, but it’s something akin to pity, and that makes you feel like swallowing your tongue. 

“Fair enough,” he says simply, returning to his work.

* * *

_“Humans do not grasp the full spectrum of emotion. Why, they hardly understand the many different varieties of pity! They lack basic compassion for others and, as such, humans should never be trusted.”_

 _—Excerpt from “My Little Overseer’s First Training Manual” Issued by The Coalition for Ethical Treatment of Lesser Beings_

* * *

You find yourself working with Strider more often. Your original assessment of him was correct; he is a highly skilled worker. Were he a troll, you would be tempted to promote him to overseer. 

And that troubles you, because no human should be that competent. 

“…So, then Roxy just bolts out of the cafeteria, screaming ‘I’ve got the raspberries!’ So, of course, what else can I do? I turn to the instructoripper, and I say… Hey, are you even listening?”

You look up from the wiring you’re doing to meet his eyes. “Oh… Yes. You were telling me about your childhood moirail.” 

He frowns at you, tapping a wrench lightly against his knee. “Well, I wouldn’t say moirail. But I guess that’s pretty damn close to the truth.” 

“Yes, I know humans do not have a grasp of the concept.”

“Whoa, slow down there,” Dirk says, waving a hand. “It’s not that we don’t get the idea. We just don’t see a need to put a label on it. Humans just have friends, and sometimes best friends, and there’s no need to get all friendmarried unless you really want to.” 

You frown. “From that description, it certainly doesn’t seem you get it. Moirallegiance is about more than just… a higher tier of friendship.” 

“No, I get that,” Dirk says. “It’s just that, well, it’s different. See, humans are social creatures, right? Our strength comes from the strength of our bond with others. So, the more the merrier. Trolls have a different approach, being more of a loner species than a pack animal.” 

“And what gave you that idea?” 

He shrugs, looking down at the console he’s fixing. “Oh, nothing. It’s just something my Bro pointed out to me. Well… I guess he’s not actually my brother; just some dude that took me under his wing on my first assignment. I guess that goes along with my point, though. We’re social creatures. We form bonds, and those bonds make us stronger.” 

You nod slowly. It makes a sort of odd sense to you. Humans are wired quite differently from you. But the idea that those differences could be a form of strength… it makes your stomach clench. 

Dirk’s demeanor is changed now; he’s slumped over more, and his work pace has slowed. 

You take a guess at why. “When you reached the age of conscription… when you got sent to your first assignment and met this brother of yours… Your moirail wasn’t sent along with you, was she?” 

He lets out a harsh laugh that cuts through the air. “Of course she wasn’t. Why would they care? We’re just humans. Doesn’t matter what we want, right?”

You bite your lip, and try to return to your wiring. 

“Do you know how that feels?” he asks bitterly. “I mean, she was the first thing that was ever like family to me, you know? I’d rip out my own heart before I let something happen to her. And now… I don’t even know where she is. Do you have any idea what that’s like?” 

“Yes,” you whisper before you can think better of answering. “Somewhat.”

He looks at you in shock. “Wait… you did a mention a moirail, didn’t you? You got separated from her when you reached conscription?” 

You nod. “Our skill sets are… quite different. We were sent to different sectors.”

He frowns. “But you’re a director now. Can’t you request her to transfer here?” 

“There is nothing here that she could do. Her skills lie elsewhere.” 

He shakes his head. “I can’t believe this. Even you can’t have your moirail by your side. What’s even the point, then? If you and I are in the same boat, how are you less of a slave than me?”

“You can’t fight the role the mother made for you. No one can.” 

“Bull,” he mutters. “With your brute force, I imagine you could fight damn near anything, Zahhak. Abstract concept or not.”

* * *

_“Some human myths say that the Empire’s war with them lasted nearly a century! It’s amazing how good they are at telling jokes! Humans wouldn’t know how to wage war against an army of greasy fast-food wrappers, much less stand up to the Empire. Humanity pissed its collective boxers when the Empire showed up, and they’ve done nothing but surrender ever since.”_

 _—Excerpt from “The Complete Military History of the Empire in Comic Form”_

* * *

*ac jumps up onto her meowrail’s lap and purrs at him*  
i am happy to hear that you are doing okay. i’m sorry that my ship is so fur away that we can’t even troll each other in real time. but i am still supurr happy fur your emails. :33  
this strider worker sounds really nice. i know that you think he’s a purroblem, but the way you talk about him makes me think it’s a good purroblem. do you have a flush crush? if so, i appurrove. ;33  
i know that you would argue, and say you can’t have f33lings fur him beclaws he’s a human, but i think that’s stupid. humans are still peopawle, no matter what efurryone says. and i think you think so too, even though you propawbly wouldn’t admit it.  
you should think about it. h33h33

take good care of yourself, meowrail.  
\--arsenicCatnip 

 

You stop and close the email window on your computerized shades. You were enjoying an after-hours stroll through the compound as you read, and you weren’t particularly paying attention to where you were going. You seem to have wandered into the worker section. There are no windows for natural light in the worker levels, so when the workers are meant to sleep the corridors go pitch dark, with only enough light for trolls to see by. 

Which is why you find it odd that there is light spilling out from around the corner here. 

“Look,” a voice whispers, “the highbloods’ food and water supply is kept completely separate from what the lowbloods and the workers are left to. We can end this in a matter of hours.”

“No, fuck that,” a familiar human voice hisses. “We’re not using poison like a bunch of cowardly assholes.” 

“Isn’t that exactly what we are though? A bunch of godda—”

You peer around the corner and clear your throat. There are no less than twenty workers huddled in this corridor, as well as several lowblood troll employees, your assistant included. At the far end of the group, you spot Strider. 

Your assistant pales. “Wh—what are all of you doing out of your bunks?! Get out of here! Shoo!”

Dirk just sits, staring at you. 

“May I have a word with you, Strider?” you ask, gesturing in the opposite direction of the workers. 

He nods, and makes his way through the crowd of panicked, scurrying workers. You begin walking and he catches up quickly. You walk in silence; he’s sticking close—probably because he is unable to see on his own—and you can nearly feel how tense he is. You leave the worker area and climb the stairs to the main assembly floor. Some light trickles through vents in the ceiling, so the light level is likely more tolerable for him. 

Eventually, he’s the one that breaks the silence. “So… this doesn’t seem to be one of those strolls that’s going to end in culling…”

“Unlikely,” you mutter. 

He nods. “And I also don’t think you’ll believe that we all just happened to get lost on the way to our bunks.”

“I would not.”

“So… what are we doing here?”

You stop, and look down at him. “I’m not sure.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you looking for suggestions? Because I have a few choice ones.” 

“And those might be?”

He shrugs. “A day off and a pony for every worker?” 

“Much as I admire hoofbeasts, I doubt I could requisition enough for everyone.” 

“Then how about just you and me? We can be pony pals.” 

“That would be highly improper.”

“Did you almost laugh at that? I think you just found that funny, didn’t you?” 

“Treachery is no laughing matter, Strider,” you say sternly. “I can’t ignore what you were doing down there.”

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short, Big Guy.” He leans against a railing and grins. “I think you can manage it.” 

You frown. “You’re not helping.”

“Hey, I figure you already caught me red-handed, so being flippant about it can’t hurt,” he says with a shrug. “Now, come on. Let’s just all go to bed and pretend this didn’t happen.” 

“That would make me complicit with your actions.”

“Aren’t you?” he asks, his orange gaze turning stern. “Look, I’m in no place to tell you how to run things, but if you really believe that I’m a lesser being than you, you have a pretty odd way of showing it.” 

“It is the natural order of things that your kind is subservient to my kind. You can’t fight—”

“The role the mother made for you,” he says for you. He pulls himself up to his full height and glares. “Listen, I wasn’t hatched like you. But that doesn’t mean I’m less than you or any other troll. And I think you know that. I think you know all this ‘role of the mother’ shit is just that: a steaming load of hoofbeast shit. Because if you really believed that humans are worthless beasts of burden, like they teach all good little grubs, there’s no way I’d be alive right now.”

You snarl. “You will not tell me what I believe.”

“Well, obviously someone has to, because you have no fucking clue.” 

You think about all of the ways you could cull him right now without moving from this spot. 

And you should cull him. It’s your right.

It’s your duty. 

…

You can’t.

“Strider…”

“Yeah?” he says, his glare unwavering. 

You sigh. “We should both go to bed.” 

“Mine or yours?” 

“Strider.”

“Right. I know. Not helping.” He shrugs and walks away, and you feel like all your strength has been pulled out from under you.

* * *

_“In the end, the State is only as strong as its people. All its people, troll or not. The Empire is only strong as long as its people are chained. Those who are not fettered by literal chains are bound by the figurative chains of their caste. Cast off the chains! Rise up! And you will see your strength grow as the Empire crumbles at your feet.”_

 _—Except from “The Standard Manual of Troll Mental Disorders” from the entry on the disease of ‘Heresy.’  
(Quote attributed to a Philosoreaper of the third age, cured of his affliction with the prescribed treatment: culling.)_

* * *

You wish you could say it surprises you more when you hear the shouting just outside your quarters. But honestly you’re just surprised it didn’t come about sooner. It’s been a month since you caught Dirk and his cohorts in the hallway, and you’ve been more or less looking the other way ever since.

Come to think of it, though, it makes sense he would wait. The newest ship, the Defiascendant, has just been completed, and only hours ago you greeted the test pilot that would bring it out on its maiden voyage once the sun set.

You almost lazily recognize the sounds of blaster fire outside. You pull yourself out of your recuperacoon and get dressed. You barely have time to grab the ignition chip for the Defiascendant before your door is kicked down. 

Dirk stands before you with a blaster rifle. It looks awkward in his hands—it is clearly not his weapon of choice—but you are sure he can kill with it all the same. Behind him are several more armed workers, both human and troll. 

You turn your gaze back to Dirk, and he stares back. You can tell he’s hesitating, and it almost feels wrong. 

“We want—”

You don’t let him finish the sentence, and instead hand him the ignition chip. “Go. Tell the helmsman to fly for the Antera Nebula. There are no known fleet operations in that sector, and if you run into trouble the nebula will provide excellent cover for such a small ship.”

Dirk’s eyes widen as he takes the chip. He tosses it over to your assistant who catches it deftly. “Get the ship started. Go! I’ll catch up.” 

The workers run towards the main bay. Dirk lowers his rifle and looks up at you. 

“You should go,” you tell him. “Earn your freedom.” 

“You should come too,” he says. “I’ve seen through your act, you know. You don’t like things the way they are either.” 

“No,” you insist. “I’ll buy you some time.”

“And when your holier-than-thou ass tells them you let us go because you can’t fucking tell a lie, then what? Are they going to cull you?” 

You nod. “Most likely.” 

“Then fuck that shit, and fuck them too. Come with us. There’s not a damn thing left for you here,” he shouts. 

“I—”

You’re not sure what you expected, but it wasn’t for him to stand up on the tips of his toes and seal his lips on yours. You can’t help but return the kiss. You wrap your arms around his midsection and he hooks his free arm around the back of your neck, and it hits you that it feels like he fits to the curve of your body like he was created for it by the mother herself. 

“Come with me,” he whispers.

And you still can’t help yourself as you nod in agreement.

* * *

_“In the end, a troll must follow what he believes to be right; follow the path that brings him the most fulfillment and joy. For what good is a life wasted in service to a military state that cares nothing for its people? It is a life wasted on flawed ideals and false hope for a cruel Empire.”_

 _—Excerpt from “Cull-Baits Say the Darnedest Things, Volume 9: A compilation of the wackiest last-words speeches.”_


End file.
